


Love Means Nothing

by werepope (quiteparadise)



Series: 2014 Advent Calendar for a Filthy-Minded Athiest [14]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Original female characters (non-romantic), So much tennis, Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiteparadise/pseuds/werepope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam is a professional tennis player.  Zayn isn't.</p><p> </p><p>Advent calendar challenge: Expensive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Means Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Any opinions expressed by characters herein about professional tennis players and/or their families are not those of the author. The author has ugly-cried watching Roger Federer lose in early rounds of tournaments, okay? The author fucking loves Roger Federer.

Liam has a Babolat sponsorship, multiple 500 series trophies, an ATP ranking in the top thirty five, and no chance in hell of ever winning the Davis Cup.

Last year he made it to the final in Madrid where he faced off against Federer himself. He even managed to take a set off of him before Federer unleashed his service game to finish off the fourth set in what Zayn refers to as Ye Olde Style – which is to say that Zayn thinks Federer is a dick, even if he is the GOAT. He still won't hear a good word about the man, despite Liam practicing with him on the regular these days and never having a bad thing to say about him. Liam's good graces are never-ending. His opinion hardly counts.

Zayn met Liam when he was still doing the Challenger Tour, back when he was fighting to break in the top one hundred and all Zayn knew about tennis was that Feliciano Lopez was hot. Oh how far they've come.

Now Liam flies all over the world chasing the summer in chartered airplanes for way more points, because more points means more prize money, too. Now Zayn knows the ATP series calendar and has informed opinions on linesmen versus Hawk-Eye. Now Feliciano Lopez has unfortunate amounts of facial hair obscuring his wonderful jawline.

Liam calls from Washington and Montreal and Cincinnati as he ramps up for the US Open. He made it to the quarters at Roland Garros but he balls-ed it up at Wimbledon in the round of sixteen. It was was a small, petty consolation that Nadal didn't make it any further. Liam's better on hard courts, anyway. He's determined to give it his very best in New York. Zayn doesn't mention that Liam always gives everything his very best, because sometimes that isn't a compliment.

Liam is seeded at twenty, listed amongst some of the greatest tennis players in the history of the sport, and he calls as soon as the draw is announced to just be nervous and excited at him. Zayn ducks out of the studio to crouch in the hall with his laptop and check the draw, biting paint off of his fingertips as he scans and scans to find the all-important **Liam Payne (GBR) [20]**.

Zayn gets more and more nervous as the matches pile up, tidy tables with sixes behind Liam's name, but he makes it through to the quarterfinals, and calls Zayn about an hour after the stream on the ESPN website switches over to another court, win in hand.

"It's probably going to be Roger in the next round," Liam says.

Zayn breathes even and deep and tells himself this is okay. Liam has made it this far in Grand Slam tournaments before. And unlike Federer, he's not in his thirties. There will be so many Grand Slams to come after this. It's okay if he gets knocked out of this one.

"How are you feeling?" Zayn asks. He doesn't have opinions on Liam's form, on the strength of his serve or the accuracy of his backhand. He trusts Liam to know those things for him, and Liam in turn trusts his team to be honest. But he has opinions on Liam's health, on twinges and aches and the daily punishment of his career.

"I want you here," Liam says, instead of talking about his shoulder (has been better) or the state of his hands (horrible).

Zayn used to go to matches when they were near enough to manage, back when Liam was ranked so low that no one except other tennis players knew who he was. He fell in lust with Liam watching one of those matches, watching him come up off of the floor to return a forehand during a long volley. That was before Zayn knew much of anything about either forehands or volleys. But he knew that Liam was fast and sturdy, that his ass looked nice when he bent over to receive service, and that the noise he made when he returned a ball went straight to Zayn's dick.

He fell in love with Liam over Skype, because he was even busier on tour then than he is now. Zayn didn't know shit about tennis, but he liked the way Liam would laugh so hard he'd go out of frame, and that he'd flush up when their flirtation turned filthy, and that when he came home between tournaments he would drop damn near anything to actually see Zayn in the flesh.

"In New York," Zayn says, dumbly, but he wants confirmation. He needs this spelled out for him so he knows for sure what he's going to say no to.

"My parents are coming. You can sit with them."

Zayn used to be a calm person before Liam came into his life. He doesn't know how they handle it, the family and friends who sit in the players boxes, being quiet and respectful. He doesn't know how Mirka fucking Federer can sit there, match after match, year after year, and not blow blood vessels keeping in all her screams.

"I don't know, Li. I don't know. That's a lot of pressure."

Liam laughs. He's still high on adrenaline, feeling no nerves whatsoever for the upcoming match. And Zayn doesn't know how he does that, either, but he does. It's like he's sucked all the chill right out of Zayn's soul. "Babe," he says, "I could really do this."

"If you make the final," Zayn says, and Liam laughs harder.

"Talk about pressure!"

...

He makes it to the final. Zayn watches the match in a pub a few miles from his university with a group of fellow tennis enthusiasts who gather around the plasma screen mounted on the wall and drink heavily during tie-breaks.

He makes it to the final, and Zayn isn't even the one cheering the loudest when he does. There are a couple of ladies in the group who are massive Liam fans. Jan and Pat. They're older than Zayn by about twenty years and they play doubles on the weekend and they love Liam so much Zayn almost wants to tell them to back off. Almost.

Pat orders a Pimm's to celebrate. Jan offers a commiseration for Murray, who deserves a moment of respect, and then clinks the edge of her glass against Pat's. Zayn keeps replaying the blown out relief on Liam's face when he shook Murray's hand at the net and the way Murray patted him on the back like he meant his congratulations, like countrymen instead of rivals.

"I was thinking of going to the final," Zayn says, casual, half burying the words in his beer like he isn't bursting with it.

Jan and Pat are on him in an instant. They were there in the stands when Liam crashed out of Wimbledon. It's the only time they've seen him play in person and they probably won't be able to get tickets to see him again if he comes back to London for the ATP Grand Final. Liam should invite them to his box. They'd swim to New York for that.

"Can you, though?" Pat asks. "It's so much money, love!"

Jan thinks it's a brilliant idea. "You wouldn't regret it. You're supposed to do that kind of thing at your age. Damn the consequence."

"I know someone who's going to be there," Zayn says. He's gotten very good at not-quite lying since he got pulled into their friendship. "He can get me a pass for the day."

He really has no idea what they think of him, but they're so excited it fills in the cracks of his own crumbly nervousness. It's not even a question, to them, of whether or not Liam will win. It doesn't so much as come up. They just think he should go, should take the opportunity while he has it.

"Payne won't be playing forever," Jan says, waving a hand behind her toward the screen where Murray is speaking into a microphone, no doubt saying nice, well-rehearsed things. "They have short careers, these boys. Look at Nadal. If he lasts as long as Federer it'll be a miracle. You should go see him while you've got the chance."

In his pocket, Zayn's phone starts playing the Alabama Shakes and he darts outside to answer, smiling a flash of apology to the ladies.

"You whipped him!" Zayn says in lieu of a greeting.

"No, he did really well. He's great." Liam's voice has the slight tremble that he gets during post-match court side interviews and when he's coming down off of the jag of a prolonged orgasm. "Are you coming?"

"Djokovic or Wawrinka next, huh?"

Liam groans frustration but he breaks into a laugh well before it's believable. "You promised."

"Well I didn't think you'd actually do it!"

"Zayn!" Liam's laugh echoes big and loud and Zayn knows he's in the dressing room just from the acoustics. He wonders if Wawrinka and Djokovic are in there yet, getting ready for their own match. He wonders if they're irritated by Liam's unfettered relief.

Zayn sighs, put upon. "Yeah, alright. But I'm not gonna hang out at the grounds all day while you get sweaty with other people."

"I'll take you anywhere you want to go," Liam says. "I've got the whole day off."

He doesn't, really. The day off before a final is supposed to be spent in restive relaxation, but he'll spend the whole morning training, making sure nothing falls out of peak physical condition while he's not paying close enough attention. Then he'll probably have some press to do. It is a Grand Slam final after all, and they love him in New York, his accent and his approachable charm. He'll probably be on ESPN half the day, even if they're only playing ten second clips from a five minute interview. As well they fucking should.

"I'm proud of you," Zayn says, and he can hear Liam melt from all the way across the Atlantic ocean.

"I love you, too. Now shut up and pack. I'm buying your ticket right now."

...

Liam wins his first Grand Slam, and when they replay the reaction shot of his team in the players box, Zayn is the first one on his feet. His hair's been all pulled out of shape and he's wearing sunglasses, but Jan and Pat recognize him instantly.

He brings them hats and polo shirts and giant novelty tennis balls with the US Open logo and Liam's most careful signature on them. They try to convince him for a solid hour to get Liam to drop by one of their doubles matches and, worst of all, when they've finally bullied Zayn into calling to ask, Liam says it sounds like fun.

Zayn goes along to that match as well.


End file.
